


Your Own, Personal, Demon

by AforAngelus



Category: Angel (BtVS) - Fandom, Angel (TV), Angel: the Series, Bones (TV), Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Bones/Angel Crossover - Freeform, Bones/BtVS Crossover, Bones/BtVS/Angel Crossover, Bongel, Boothelus, Crossover, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26844385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AforAngelus/pseuds/AforAngelus
Summary: An exploration of where Booth and Angel crossover - with an added dash of mild horror.Part of an ongoing series development.
Relationships: Angel (BtVS)/Temperance Brennan, Angel/Buffy Summers, Seeley Booth/Temperance Brennan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	1. Yaldabaoth

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the series exploring the Booth/Angel crossover.
> 
> I'll be adding to this periodically. I have no idea where it'll end up, but the idea won't go away so, guess there'll be more words coming in the months ahead. 
> 
> Comments welcome. Feedback feeds the muse.

He'd been tracking the parasite for months. It was a vendetta - almost - a defiant "You shall not pass!" moment from months earlier which had gripped him and sent him off on a singular rage against every injustice in the world. Part of him knew he was being ridiculous. The other part however, wouldn't rest until it had satisfaction. So he kept going, kept patrolling, kept on pushing forward and seeking the tiny details; the tiny details never led anywhere except dead ends or drains or holes in the ground, or worse. In the end, his search brought him to a leafy suburb half a world away from where he'd expected to be.

*****

It was the smell drew him to a street lined with maple trees and grassy verges cut with perfect kerb stones - that smell... that unforgettable smell. Like a spell, it had the same potency. A sweet, pink trap. The kind a person would want to put their tongue into. It got into the victim's head. Once inside it would go down into the back of their throats. It was reminiscent of candifloss at a noisy, crowded fairground on a hot summer evening. Heavy and happy, loud and safe, hard to hold on to, fun - that's how the victims had described it. It all sounded seductive in the extreme, he had thought - and fatal in the long run, like most things, no doubt. Very hard to get rid of - he'd seen the effects in the survivors he'd met, in they way they had spoken, in the way they looked, in the expressions they wore, the look in their eyes, even the set of their mouths. It haunted them - or the memory did. It was as if they remembered being abandoned by something that loved them, or something that they had thought had loved them... 

Even they faded away in the end, eaten up by depression, or consumed by suicide, or preyed on by some other thing. They filled the empty hole inside them with something else - drink, drugs, syphilis, a mixture of all three... it didn't matter. Some would go and get a gun - most got a gun. In the end, the end was inevitable.

He thought often that 'survivors' was the wrong word to use to describe the people he'd met. No-one survived, not really, they just lingered until... 

As for the parasite, it always seemed to survive, popping up here and there in clusters - like a fungus on a tree, it would bloom if the conditions were right. He mapped it. He knew the signs to look for, but catching it before it had gone too far was difficult and tracking it was near impossible until it was too late. It would overcome and consume any person, then grow inside them until one day there would be nothing left of them, and they'd decompose right down to the bone. But it left a path, one he could follow. He had discovered that, unofficially, 95% of missing persons reports were in fact parasite incidents. Officially, people just thought their loved ones had disappeared or run away...

The parasite was capable of destroying the lives of everyone it touched, even indirectly. And it was relentless. He had a suspicion it knew exactly what it was doing.

*****

This time round, he found it in a garage - seven adults and three children. A family and its relatives most probably - it would make sense, and in multiple victim cases of this kind it made perfect sense because there was no-one beyond the immediate family unit to report anyone missing. Extended family or distant friends, even neighbours, were always oblivious to what was going on.

He checked each victim - he always checked - but they were already too far gone, their eyes glazed over like bloated fish. The youngest victim, a girl, probably about four or five years old, still grasped a plushie to her chest - he could make out the toy's soft orange tiger stripes and affectionate wear marks. That last vestige of humanity would be discarded when she awoke from her transformative coma - probably dumped right there on the floor amidst the broken glass and filth. She'd trample it underfoot - under those tiny feet of hers, those tiny red shoes - and then off she'd go, out into the world... walk around, eat, drink, never sleep, go to school, go through the motions of being alive and all the time she'd be dead inside and giving off that smell... she'd smile at people, talk, touch them, lick chocolate ice-cream off of a spoon and do everything any normal kid would do - everything except love. She'd sit on someone's lap and the parasite inside her would feed off the person she was with as she attracted them to her; and then the cycle would continue. 

She'd infect every kid in her class, and the next, the whole school - hell, the whole neighbourhood in under a year if left unchecked... 

****

The house was engulfed in fire within the hour. Black soot poured out of every window. He knew how to make it look good, how to make it appear foolish and absent-minded, and tragic - that was important, tragic was important. They deserved that much. They deserved everyone to feel sorry for them. They deserved to be mourned. It was the least he could do for them. He owed them that.

He stood and watched, concealed by leaf shadow, on guard under a mature maple tree on the far side of the street, like a sniper... To ensure no-one escaped through a window or door. To ensure the job was done because no-one had done the job properly before. To stop this thing from happening again - you, shall not, pass... or something like that.

When the flames got too high and too bright and lights came on in adjacent properties - someone, bleary eyed and bed-headed and wrapped in a dressing gown had appeared on the side-walk - it was time to leave. 

He was always careful. He always checked. He left no trace. There was always an outside possibility he'd be back if the call came in; and if forensics and the local authorities started crawling over the crime scene and evidence was found of him being there around the time of the incident it could all get messy and...

*****

There was soot in the air and the smell only a house fire could create as he retraced his steps. He followed a circuitous route back to the city via a refuse filled, disused storm drain - checking, always checking. The parasite's trail was already fading, he noted; in a week it would be gone completely. He prayed for rain. In the dark, his foot caught and disturbed something familiar amongst the debris and he paused to pick the thing up. Minute, striped legs and a tail hung between his fingers, and a wobbly head lolled to one side. Most of the stuffing was missing from the small body - it was dirty and soggy with rainwater, and it had that unique loved-by-someone-once-upon-time feel to it, as if the broken memory was stuck on it. Turning the thing over, he stared at the torn space where a friendly tiger face had once been - his phone rang.

Everything sounds louder in the dark. It's an observable phenomena, even though it can't be proved empirically. One of those psychological things Sweets always talked about, like things that live under the bed, or something like that - the phone rang-rang-rang as he urgently peeled it from his coat pocket. With a cursory glance at the number - he always checked - he took the call. "Booth," he announced automatically - sharply. The storm drain bounced his voice off its concrete walls. Chatter in his ear offered nostalgic comfort - like a dead person's voice. "Okay, I'm on my way," he said and finished the call. The storm drain felt like an uncomfortable place to be suddenly...

He paused to regard the damaged plushie for a moment longer, then, as if answering instinct, pocketed it. He'd work out why later, he told himself, and as fire-truck sirens carried on the night air, much closer than before, the disturbed silence in the storm drain settled again. With a final look at his surrounds, he moved on despite having no sense of the satisfaction he had hoped he would feel. 

He'd work out why later, he told himself, and try to ignore the nagging feeling he'd achieved nothing. Something told him he couldn't close the file, not yet.


	2. The Demon Lawyer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booth is on the hunt for information - and gets more than he bargained for.

The nightclub bumped and gyrated  trance black-blue and silver angles under strobes. There was standing room only at the bar  the blood on offer thinned down and chaser bloodclot shots of O and AB negative.

And that wasn't all that was on offer, if you had the money...

Booth eased through the tribal mass on the dance floor, blending into the intoxicating bodies that were too close for comfort. The pull was good - only a vampire could know what that was. Neither a feeling nor a taste, nor smell, but rather more than the sum of all three which made it uniquely its own kind of sense, more than sixth, or even seventh; it transcended the natural ordder becoming something other. Preternatural and supernatural, and true like a compass. It could guide or spin out of control...

Tonight, that compass reading told Booth he could so easily take anything he wanted, but he suppressed it, pushing willing hands aside and demands down until he could deal - later, alone, somewhere private because that's how all addictions worked.

Refocus, eyes forward - forget the blonde...

He found what, or rather _who_ he was really looking for sandwiched, ironically, between two blondes in the VIP area. _Who_ was a disguise, an inglorious individual bedecked in a suit only James Bond would wear. The side-show on in progress in front of Booth reflected off the club's polished chrome and glass decor. There was snow to take. And by the empty expression on one of the blonde's faces, and the way Who's hand couldn't be seen for skirt, it was obvious Who was busy playing a bad hand of backseat poker.

An altercation followed, escalated quickly and degenerated into a verbal confrontation along the lines of: You're a pimp, I don't like pimps, FBI, here's my badge, answer the question, answer the question or I'll show you my other badge - yeah, you know the one, pal, don't even try it...

The whole thing got out of hand and terminated in a disused multi-storey not far from the nightclub - winner remained standing.

********

Booth rubbed the back of his hand under his bleeding nose, examined the fresh blood, acknowledged the indignity of being popped for the first time in a long time, and then dug a bag of salt out of his pocket. Who, the expensively dressed loser lay crumpled on a pile of refuse next to a dumped mattress - loser, huh, loose description - and inadequate were a report ever filed, which of course was never going to happen for the major reason: Booth was outside of his jurisdiction - whoa, way out, drowning in the deep end - and besides, there wasn't a tick box on any standard FBI forms for 'loser with a Flemming fantasy' or 'suspect is demonically possessed', so no paperwork on this one...

A groan at ground level was a dead give-away that Who was finally coming round. At the same time, Booth was saying: "Try that shit on me again," whilst flicking salt everywhere but, "and it won't just be a salt circle you'll be sitting inside, okay - don't even think about it, pal, stay where you are and make life easy for yourself. And me."

The loser glared back, dumbly, insolently, then made a show of salvaging some dignity and sat up. He adjusted the lapels of that evocative suit he wore, and with a smooth, cut-glass accent to match, enunciated: "I say ol'chap, you'll pay for this," and pointed at a broken cuff-link.

"In your dreams," came the swift Boothy rebuff - more salt was flicked.

What followed was a hiss not unlike overheated fat on a hot griddle and Who's middle-aged countenance began to grey at the edges. "This is an outrage," Who spat, and shook out a handkerchief and dabbed his cheek. "I'll have the police arrest you for this impertinence."

Booth sifted salt through his fingers; a sharp intake of breath told him Who understood the not-so-subtle message. "Don't play, I'm not in the mood. And y'know, keeping up the side show is a waste of time too, I know what you are, pal. So save us both some trouble, and drop the mask. It must be pretty tiring keeping that thing on all night, all things considered."

Said mask shifted and faded to a hollow grey. A sticky black tongue licked parched lips. "I have a pass," Who said, his demonic voice becoming more brittle and dry as seconds slipped by but for some reason, that quintessential accent remained. "I'm allowed to inhabit and reside here in the full term. I know my rights. This vessel's contract belongs to me, ol'chap, I bought it, and the debt must be paid in full based on the terms of--"

"Yeah-yeah - shut'up," interrupted Booth. He held up a handful of salt to emphasise his point. "I'm not interested in whatever demonic time-share you've got going on here with that 'vessel'. That's between his sorry ass and yours. So save me the devil-lawyer crap, it gives me a headache. I just want answers to a couple of questions and then you can go back to licking the inside leg of whatever takes your fancy, or running your seedy little side show for the kiddie-demons, okay?"

"My office hours are between six and six," the demon said. "If you wanted a consultation on the finer points of contractual law, all you had to do was book an--hss!"

The salt stung, obviously.

"Don't get cocky with me." Booth waited for the hissing protests to subside. "There's plenty more where that came from, so why don't you have a little rethink and try a little more co-operation this time, huh? That's better, I'm glad we're beginning to understand each other. Now, answers to questions. First question: who's in the contract business these days?"

The demon's attention piqued. "It would depend on the type of contract," came the reply. "A consultation is the first stage of the process in any event -- I would have to make enquiries of course, it could take some time, and book you an appointment?"

"Nice try," said Booth. "Next question: if I wanted to get someone signed up to a contract, is it--"

"Impossible," the demon interrupted, and then tsk-tsked under its breath as it shook its head. "You're obviously way of your depth, ol'chap. A contract can never be drawn on the basis of third party gratis."

Booth eyed the demon: there was a need to weigh the value of what it said against past experiences, and not everything it said sat right.

Who settled on its haunches, and made a show of examining its manicured nails. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to book an appointment -- NO!" it shot out a hand protectively. "Stop with the salt, please, for Hell's sake, I'll tell you what you want to know."

The loss of that cut-glass English accent didn't slip Booth's notice. And neither did the slow erosion of the salt by rainwater trickling across the garage concrete - time was running out and the demon was using it to its advantage...

"I'm all ears, ol'chap," said Booth, playing along.

The demon smiled. The accent was back when it spoke. "No contract can be entered into without explicit consent from the parties involved, although a contract can be consulted on by third parties, advice given to the finer points, even drawing up the paperwork, outlining of terms, etcetera, etcetera... But agreement to any contract comes in the form of direct consent of the individual in whose name that contract is drawn. And by consent, that means verbal first, then in blood, in person, in presence, that being alive and present, that being in mind and body, face to face, eye to eye..."

"Fine, great, I get the idea. I'll get the consent."

"By beating them up and subjecting them to interrogation, even torture? By salt? Good luck with that, ol'chap," the demon said. It looked Booth over, and whatever conclusion it reached, prompted it to add: "All contracts are null and void if the first party - that's the person signing the contract, by the way - is deemed to be subject to coercion at any time leading up to, or around the time of the contract's creation, completion and signing. That includes any indirect coercion by third parties - for example, that's you and your bag of salt by the way - and coercion also includes measures such as bribes, payments in kind, sacrifices--"

"Whoa, hold on there, who said anything about making any sacrifices, no-one's making any sacrifices."

"--blood oaths, slavery or enslavement of any magical creature or in some cases--"

"Wha--"

"--human virgin, preferably female of course due to the standard progeny clauses now that insist on fertility being proven prior to impregnation--"

" Whoa!" cried Booth, "impre-no, no impregnation, absolutely not."

"--inccubution, succubution, lucubration--"

"Okay. Stop! Enough already, I get the idea, and it's a no, okay? No unicorns, no impregnating anyone I know or using anything of any kind for anything."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to book an appointment?" The demon's smile was almost sweet. It sniffed and adjusted its tie. "I'm very busy right now, and this is very unorthodox dragging me out at this time of night, but as it's you I might have an opening say... in the next couple of months at some point, although I can't promise anyth--hss!! - will you please desist with the salt!"

"Then desist with lawyer crap, okay ol'chap?" Booth examined the scant remains at the bottom of the bag of salt - not enough. He chose to bluff. "Tell me about exceptions to the rules. You guys always leave loopholes, right? And your clients, clients love loopholes, so... tell me about special contracts, they exist, right?"

"Special contracts?" the demon hedged. It eyed the rainwater trails dissolving the edges of the salt circle. "I could lose my licence."

"I'd make it worth your while."

"The soul of a vampire, perhaps?"

Booth levelled a look at the demon. The demon licked its lips.

"That woman you know..."

"Forget it. Special contracts. Spill."

The demon offered up after a time. It's voice had dropped to a conspiratorial hush however, as though it were concerned with being over-heard despite the emptiness around it. "All contracts require witnesses," it said to Booth as it glanced around, "and dependent on the type of contract, say those of a special nature, on unconsecrated ground, and that's imperative. It's very simple really, even a child could do it - even you... But there are numerous variations, and contracts once drawn can be varied considerably, but... it's costly. But doable, and you don't want anyone varying your contract once it's drawn...."

"Of course," said Booth, playing along... "Varying. Sounds... variable. Who'd want that?"

"Exactly, ol'chap. Far better to have it tied up neatly, no chance of any antecedent party putting in a claim or attempting to break the contract on the grounds of a technicality."

"Right, Aunty Sids, unpleasant. And those pesky technicalities, we can't have any of those either. Best identify those and get them all ironed out, right?" Booth's smile was perfect.

"Quiet so, ol'chap." The demon straightened up and flexed its shoulders. It appeared encouraged. "And then there's the danger of bounce back. Very unpleasant if you get the contract fouled up in some feedback concession where you end up being bound into the thing yourself and paying for it at the same time... So, with that in mind, and considering this is just a general enquiry you're making at this stage, it would be normal to ask: who might this contract be for...?"

Booth let the demon itch for a few seconds before replying: "Yaldaboath", and the moment he said the word, it felt wrong in a kind of seventh sense wrong. By the way the demon reacted its compass seemed to agree.

"What!? Are you out of y--." The demon tugged at its cuffs and adjusted tattered composure. "Something tells me you've taken leave of your senses, ol'chap."

Booth tossed the near empty bag of salt aside and dug his hands into coat pockets. "Make sure you have the information I need the next time I drop by," he said. He left the demon sitting in the melting salt trap.

*********

Half-way down the street, Booth could still hear the demon's echoing protests from inside the multi-storey - something about doubling the price, crap like that. Demons, huh, always biting off more than they could chew, which was either kind of ironic or hypocritical, come to think of it. He gave the skewed idea some thought, but in the end he couldn't decide between irony or hypocrisy - brain fog, too tired, still feeling the pull from the nightclub... and hey, since when did anyone understand irony anyway, except for the British - or was it the English? Giles would know. Because even knowing what to call those guys was hard because somehow they always got huffy and stiff necked and Gilesy and...

When the demon changed tactic and started shouting for help, Booth just kept walking. When he could hear it pleading for its life, he chuckled, shook his head and started talking to the empty street about demons being a pain in the ass. But he stopped and turned back in the direction of the multi-storey all the same. He broke in to a flat run at the sound of the first scream.

Sprinting up the levels of the multi-storey with lead in his legs and the smell of something on fire in his lungs - acrid, black, sooty, and akin to demon flesh - he saw the flames as he rounded a concrete buttress to the fourth level. Perception warped time a little more and made crossing the expanse of empty parking bays seem like an aeon. He pulled up short as he reached the salt circle and the ferocity of the flames beat him back - so hot, unearthly hot. All he could do was stand aside and watch. He'd seen death before, but not like this.

The screaming was unmistakably that of something in agony, and what were clearly the demon's limbs flailed helplessly and continuously, and for far too long. Even when the flames died because there was no more to burn, there was still movement - incinerated sticks that twitched and rotated and scraped the concrete as if desperately seeking some dignity in some private place away from what had hurt it. And throughout, it made a weird, whining like a starved dog noise.

Booth tried to approach several times but the heat was still too much; he didn't care to check the straggling crowd of silent onlookers which had gathered on the level, or watch his back. Instead, he knelt down, and finally sat down to keep vigil. The night passed off that way in silence until near dawn when, what was left of the demon, attempted to communicate. Booth was at its side, kneeling in hot ash with heat on his face and unable to touch, or dare lay his coat over the black remains in case that simple act of kindness ignited it again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen," he kept saying, and leant as low and as close as he could to the incinerated skull to hear what was trying to be said. An appalling stench and waves of heat still radiated from the skeleton. It was too late.

Booth rose to his feet and turned to face the gathered jury - he recognised them, the nightclub, the dance floor, the bar and two shots of O neg knocked back and chased down with a tongue. The verdict appeared unanimous - guilty.

"I didn't do this," he announced. Or did he? Looking back, he would never be sure. What was certain was the silent judgement. Bodies parted like a proverbial biblical sea and allowed him clear passage out of the multi-storey. He took the hint, eyes front despite the walls of hostile invitation either side of him - just dare look, just dare, just once mutherfucker...

He passed through, leaving the multi-storey in a state of readiness - for an attack, for any kind of retribution, for a stake to be driven between his shoulder blades right there, at any moment, anything. But nothing.

The guilt would eat at him for weeks; and he knew, this wasn't over. Yaldabaoth had taken another life. He just had to figure out how.


	3. A Perfect Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booth is haunted by nightmares - real and imagined.

The hand was near perfect - sixes, aces, in his palm, in the river - and boy could he feel that river flow, deep down. It was good. The night felt good. Tonight he was going to walk right out of the dingy basement he'd found himself in - long story - with the whole pot, the whole $85,000, yeah! That was how it was gonna play out. He could buy his own country! Okay maybe not a whole country, but a down-payment on a tiny plantation maybe, in South America, grow your own, import export, private clients. Okay, maybe not exactly legal but hey, a bureau pension these days wouldn't even buy a 10th floor retirement condo in Ratville, so y'know what, every day the idea of taking a little something for himself seemed to make just a little more sense - as if he was ever going reach retirement age that is. But hey, a dream was a dream, y'know, it was the principle that mattered...

Cuban cigar smoked mixed with another shot of sours. Green baize and badly varnished furniture gave off a seedy-snug feel. It was private here. Dirty. Comfortable. Maybe there was some psychology in that, something tomb-like, or womb-like - okay, let's not go there...

Booth glanced at the river. Three cards floating, a pair of sixes, an ace. In his hand, a six and an ace. Sweet. He put in again and glanced to left - here it comes... yeah, you got nothin'... The guy next to him folded with the usual: "Too rich for me," cop-out; no-one around the table acted the least surprised. Fatso had been sweating out tells for the last hour and belching like an old steam stack for a least two - peptic ulcer more than likely, or too many chilli burgers down-town. 

The air definitely turned fresher when Fatso said his goodbyes. At the sound of the basement door closing, those around the table redoubled their focus, kept their tells under control and relaxed back into it. $85,000 pot. That was nothing to sniff at. It was Cheap-slick-leather-jacket's turn next, and he always took his sweet time, making a show to cover a tell was the usual. And he did. Probably held something like a pair, and by the way the river flowed, it could be another six, or worse, an ace. "I'm in," Cheap-slick chimed, and tipped his chip stack as he pushed forward. Sloppy. Nervous? Bluffing?

Those remaining around the table folded after that. All except... Booth let the moment settle on his shoulders. This was it. His brain clicked over keeping time with a pair of chips shifting between Cheap-slick's fingers. Coolly does it. He checked his cards. Six and an ace of spades. Sixes in the river and another ace. This was it. "Call."

The dealer turned the last cards over. A six, and... another six. Cheap-slick showed a six and a king. 

A six. A six? Six sixes?

Booth did a double take, shot a look at his cards, then the dealer and - "Hey - HOA!" - shock, half fell, half scrambled out of his chair: smiling back from across the table, the demon incinerated in the multi-storey not but a week ago; black teeth in a scorched skull that cracked a little as the jaw bone shifted. Impossible, impossible, Booth's brain repeated as he heard himself saying: "Whoa!" Still in shock. He stumbled as his legs got tangled up for some reason. His chair toppled back and hit the floor with a thud that only old wood on a timber floor could make.

The room stilled as if a new hand had been dealt. A chip slipped off its stack and rolled a little dance until it petered out on the baize. The demon adjusted its ash grey suit. "Looks like you've got a bad hand there, ol'chap," it said with a cut glass accent that sounded so familiar.

"Wait a minute," said Booth, "you're... you're--"

"Dead."

The tableau at the card table gazed at Booth. The demon set the stack of cards aside with the tiniest of flourishes - a precisely placed index finger that crumbled slightly under pressure and left minute charcoal crumbs on the baize. 

"It is possible," the demon was saying, "Now to the point. Agent Booth, isn't it? Or do you prefer to be called Angelus?"

"Angel, the name's--" Booth had already replied before he caught himself - careful, why would you admit to that? Could it be his brain was still playing catch-up? Either way, that sixth, or seventh, sense told him something was wrong about this.

"Angel," the demon repeated, and finished with a chuckle. "Ironic. Although, I doubt, you'd understand why that was. Anyway, as a formality you can call me anything you like, my name wasn't specified at the time of contract, though I should refer to you by the name given under the agreed terms, which is Agent Booth, but that's so... impersonal, don't you think?"

"Contract? What contract? I never made any contract." Booth's brain scrambled around again trying to grab hold of something in the room that could tell him which way was up. This didn't make any sense. An illicit card game on a Friday night suddenly turns into... what exactly? A hellfire reunion? And wait just one god-damn minute, where did the other dealer get to? He was there one second, the next...? Booth had known the guy, or at least could recognise him in a line-up with the lights off because a. Stinky Sid had lurked around the poolroom for years setting up games, everyone knew him; and b. take a wild guess... 

And yet in that moment when the cards had turned - gone, vanished, not a whiff he'd even been there. 

The demon was saying something like: "Oh yes you did," and playing with the deck: trick sets that fanned across the baize only to disappear with a slight of those crumbly charcoal hands. "Oh yes you did."

Oh yes you did, yes you did, yes you did.

"No. No. No I didn't. I didn't make any contract. Wait a minute," Booth stammered. He reached up and wiped something that had dripped on his forehead. His hand came away black and he looked up at the ceiling. Water? Burst pipe? He glanced down because just for a second, it felt like the floor had dropped out from under him and he was falling. Where had the river gone? It had all felt good but now, now things were getting out of hand. 

Getting his legs under him, he decided to make a stand, get a grip and hold the ground. Time to confront, confront whatever this was, whatever game was being played, whatever the outcome. Time to get to the bottom of what was going on - easier said than done. 

....drip...

"I've got no idea what the hell is going on here," he began, "but the last time I saw you, your ass was brimstoned, pal." His voice sounded weird. Too distant. The demon was smiling as spots of black spattered across the baize...

He tried again. His voice sounding weirder still. Those at the table watched. "You're dead, as far as I know - and really, I would know a thing or two about that - and hellmouths and all that goes with that kind of thing, it's pretty terminal for a demon - not that I'd know anything about being a demon." Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. "So, how come you're here all of a sudden?" Cheesy. "I wanna know what you're playing at." Better, yeah, better. "And better yet, I'd like to finish my game." Outstanding!

Those at the table appeared non-plussed. Cheap-slick-leather-jacket had lit a cuban.

"Playing?" the demon enquired as a cuban smog-bank rolled past its face. "Oh I'm not playing, ol'chap. This is serious business. And I'm here because this is the only place you and I can conduct such business. In accordance with the contract of course, standard death clause in application of course, this is the only option it would seem after my untimely... termination."

"Contract." Booth approached the gaming table and planted his hands right there. "You keep talking about a contract. What contract?"

"Between you and I."

"I haven't made any contract."

"Yes, you did." 

Oh yes you did, yes you did.

"Or are you forgetting our little tête-à-tête in the carpark?" The demon adjusted the cuffs of its suit and picking up the deck, began to methodically shuffle cards. "Quite a negotiation, as I recall. Quite a number of items discussed, terms laid out, clarifications made. Take for instance, I said sacrifice, you said no sacrifices... I said virgin, you said no... I said impregnation, you said no absolutely not. Things like that. And you did say you'd get the consent, and as you happened to be there, consenting to getting the consent then..." The demon's shoulders raised and dropped. "No timescale was specified so a standard immediacy clause came into effect."

"I wasn't talking about me!"

"No third party can create a contract on behalf of someone else, remember? I did lay it all out before you." The demon appeared almost whistful as it cocked its head. "And all the while we negotiated on unconsecrated ground. A stray drop of blood from your nose on the ground was enough. Quite the thing, really. But verbal contracts always are - were - rarities, and so complicated. So difficult to get out off. Infinitely binding, almost. Very hard to break."

Booth reacted as if he'd been slapped in the face. He glanced around the table, the room, the players, at the demon - what were they staring at, what was everyone waiting for? Answering a push, or rather pull of instinct, he made for the only door, opened it, and came face to face with a brick wall - Tomb. Prison. Trap. No way out. The floor was sticky underfoot suddenly. His hand came away from the doorhandle covered in something black and yucky. He remembered reading once that inevitablity had a feel to it...

"Okay," he said under his breath, and turned back to face the gaming table. "You wanna tell me what's going on here?"

The demon shrugged its shoulders and its ash dusted the green baize and over the game of patience it was playing. "All part of the contract, ol'chap," it replied with that oh-so-ever convivial cut glass accent and turned over another card - a six... all sixes... "You said, and I quote: 'Make sure you have all the information I need the next time I drop by', and so..." The demon spread it's hands. "You dropped by."

"Me?! Whoa, wait just one minute there," said Booth. "This is not me dropping by, pal. If it hasn't escaped anyone's notice here, this is me having a card game and you interrupting. I was in the middle of a good hand until you stuck your now non-existent nose in."

Cheap-slick snorted. Looks were shared. 

"There's no need to be rude, ol'chap," the demon said after the moment passed. "But in all my years I've never really understood peoples preferences for their own personal hell, but I suppose it takes all sorts."

"Personal hell?" Booth ventured. The nod he received from the demon put him on guard. "I dropped by to see you, here?" Again, a nod from the demon. "This place... is my... personal choice?" Another nod. "No. That's not possible."

"I must admit, your choice of surrounds are somewhat questionnable, ol'chap. I never liked being used, but small print and loopholes and the terms of the contract..." The demon shrugged. "I didn't set them, you did."

Cheap-slick was shaking his head. "That's a damn shame, brudda, damn shame." 

"Shut'up," snapped Booth.

There was a collective shaking of heads around the table. The demon appeared contrite. "But I understand the theme," it said. It shuffled up the playing cards again and set them to one side. "All those winning hands just slipping through your fingers at the last moment, over and over, and over again. Like her... That sweet, unique taste, that taste of failure that makes a person seek it out. Someone told me once it was the most painful torture a person could experience - never having, never winning."

The basement walls that were all but shadows and excluded by the light over the table had turned slick and had began to run like melting wax. The sensation in Booth's gut matched. "This wouldn't be my first choice," he heard himself say to the demon. "And believe me, I've seen hell, been there, got the t-shirt. Been tortured plenty of times too, actually."

"Oh, but it is your first choice that matters most, Angel, didn't you know that?" The demon had cocked its head again and was regarding Booth like a curiosity in a cabinet. "Strange, that your mind would bring you here. Of all the places you've been, you choose here. Odd, don't you think? I would've put you as more the blood and gore type, myself, but seems you prefer to have your hell a little more Sartre with a subtle dash of Heronimous Bosch. I suppose that makes sense in a way, if you think about it. Love is, after all, such a twisted little knife, isn't it? What we love." The demon snuffed a little as if entertaining a wry thought. "It is always out of our reach, isn't it," it reflected, "which again makes sense, because we need it to be, we need it to hurt us, and we put ourselves in situations that hurt us, and choose that over and over and over again, and seek it out, because the alternative is so much more terrifying, and--"

"Alright, enough already," snapped Booth. Did that sound a touch panicky? It could have been the room distorting things. He had tried to take a step forward but that brought him up to his knees, sinking into a floor that had turned to the consistency and colour of tar. Cigarette stubs dotted the viscous surface, the only measure of level against the walls. 

"I get the idea," Booth was saying, "there's no need to rub it in, pal."

"Oh, but rubbing salt in the wound, ol'chap," the demon grinned, "it's a pleasure returning a favour, don't you agree?"

Tar black ooze breached the edges of the gaming table and ran amok, swallowing up betting chips and cards alike. "Yeah, a real pleasure. Funny. Very funny," Booth was saying. There was no longer any definition to the room. Drowning. He was going to drown in this stuff. "What is this stuff anyway? This is supposed to be my personal hell, what is this?"

"Your own filth, of course," the demon replied. "What else would it be - I thought you said you'd been to Hell? Are you sure?"

"Yeah I'm sure," Booth said, suddenly losing his footing for good and kicking out, finally out of his depth. Black lapped at his chin; dripped on his face. There wasn't much room left. "If you got anything to say, say it now," he said to the demon. "Tell me now."

But it was too late. Black smothered the demon as it tried to say something. It was like that night in the multi-storey all over again. It was going to say something and then...

And then he was alone, the players and the table: gone, swallowed, consumed, digested; and all that was left was him and black; alone in the black. It had the same feel to it as that night at the house, the same at the club, the same as the demon burning alive. Alone. Inevitable. He gasped for breath. It was all he could hear. And he couldn't see a thing and realised he didn't want to die - and woke up, woke up in the dark, in his bed, in his apartment, bathed in a sweat that clung to his sheets and the sheet clung to him as if saturated by his fear and afraid to let go.

Gasping for breath, Booth fell out of bed and into the bathroom. The light was blinding and the tiles white and cold, and there was something comforting in that. He ran water and washed his face. As he hung on the sink, catching his breath and just watched the water droplets fall off his nose onto the porcelain, he waited for the nightmare to clear. 

....drip....

It didn't.


	4. Shopping for Oracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares of the present mix with the past and future for Booth.

The rain was apocalyptic. TV channels aired weather reports around the clock: a stream of gleeful, grey-suited zealots pointing at computer generated images of an anti-cylone covering most of the state. Rain! Flood! Death! Death! And more death coming to a place near you. And now, more dire predictions saturated in high definition for your viewing pleasure - look at the drowning dog! Oh my god! The end is nigh, the end is nigh! Go and buy and spend all your money before someone else gets there first. And now a commercial break sponsored by...

...funny, thought Booth as he trudged along a nigh-empty street. Funny how apocalypses were a commercial business these days - and why hadn't he been smart enough to see that coming and made money out of it..? If only. Besides, apocalypses were always predicted, foretold, you name it, but when it came to it, no-one ever paid any attention, no-one cared, no-one noticed. People just carried on as if nothing was happening, which, technically, was true because apocalypses were always averted - always! And because someone was always there to the save the day...

...disappointingly...  
...predictably...

...and they were usually stuffy-stuffed up and conceited librarians with a know-it-all book, and they or something like them, got the credit - why hadn't he been smart enough to think about becoming a librarian..? 

But that wasn't the point!   
Not the one he had been thinking about anyway.   
No, no, the thing he had been thinking about involved...

...her...

No!   
The other thing.   
The thing-thing... 

...the thing was, the end never seemed to come, never seemed to happen. Or had it? Had he just not noticed? Had he blinked and missed it? Was this purgatory? Was that what the feeling was, the feeling he couldn't shake and which driven him out of his apartment late at night into the pouring rain? Had it been that which had brought him here to Old Chinatown..? 

Booth dived aside to shelter in the lee of a shop doorway and check his bearings. Rain cascaded in near-perfect vertical torrents. The street landscape was a watery blur of yellow-red-black and neon shop signs; in the centre, a single strip of tarmac, a no-mans-land flanked either side by fast flowing gutters like mini-rivers that threatened to breach the kerbs and flood the side-walks. 

And silence. 

Again, Booth wondered: had something happened and he not noticed? Was this it? Was this the end? It would make sense if it was, it would account for that all-pervading sense of loneliness, that emptiness that consumed a little of him every day, and then like the liver of Prometheus, grew back just enough so he could be consumed by it all over again the next day...

A lone cyclist passed by, pushing hard; a silhouette, black, almost silent save for the spray hiss of bicycle wheels. Hunched over the handle-bars, whoever it was steered a purposeful course along the island strip of tarmac in the centre of the street. Alone, lonely, they could have been mistaken for courageous. And their passing left nothing. Nothing moved, except the rain - a moment in time...

Bless the rain.   
Bring it on.  
Hate the rain.  
Drown.  
Drown for Eternity.

Booth soaked up the silence, standing there, reluctant to disturb the urban peace, but chilling to the bone by the second. He left his shelter at a dash-hop-skip and splashed across the street. Tibetan prayer bells announced his arrival as he entered the shop on the other side. 

And that's how it ended, just as it had started...

*****

...with rain, with torrential rain, a rain that had poured for days on end, unceasing, relentless...

The streets had become mud. The city a floodplain. People died. Horses died. Death floated down the river and ran where streets once existed. 

The Tibetan prayer bells rang that night too when he entered the shop. 

That night he was greeted with a shout. It came from the back of the shop and sounded as dusty as the shelves. "No! NO!" Smokey clouds of incense eddied as cold, damp air rushed in through the open door. The prayer bells rang again announcing the door had closed. "Closed. We are closed." It was the proprietor who was shouting, an old man of dubious decent but one that hinted of the orient of old. He emerged from between tightly stacked shelves, blinking as if he'd just been awoken and shuffling and dressed in traditional Chinese pyjamas. Shrouded in paper lantern gloom, and a trailing cloud of pipe smoke that enveloped him as stood his ground, he jabbed a crooked finger in the air and shouted again: "No! You go. This shop for local people only. Go!"

There was only one answer to that: "I am local." 

Tired, wet, and ill, Angelus stood his ground, caught upon the entrance mat as if in a trap - very possibly a trap. Left and right of him, odd sigils scrawled on scraps of brown paper hung on string and fluttered as an internal breeze shifted through the shop. Lanterns rocked. A thick fog bank from incense sticks grabbed him in the back of the throat. Public shop or not, there were rules that couldn't be circumvented - especially when it came to being uninvited. And he was definitely uninvited. His gut twisted as if a stake had been driven into it. This was going to be painful if he couldn't hurry things up. "I need to talk to you," he croaked, "I need your help." 

...and that's how it had started, how it had begun, at least once upon time...

*****

...and once upon a time it ended, once, in the rain, always in the rain... 

"No, no, you go," the proprietor of the shop shouted. This time, he had scurried between stacks of boxes and make-shift shelves only to reappear between bamboo cages nearer the door. Small and thin, his skin was as thin as rice paper and he bared his opium stained teeth. And still, the light from the lanterns hanging from the ceiling throughout the shop wrapped their light around everything like sun-faded paper. It was so hard to see, so hard to make out anything at all in that light... 

"Ah!" he said, and then pointed as one of brown paper sigils over the door ignited and flared into ash. "You! You can't come in here, you! You are not welcome here! You bring evil here. You are evil!"

"I know," Angel had replied, already on his knees. His hand came away from his side covered in blood - his own. Was that how it ended this time? "I came before. You remember me. I need your help again, old man."

"No! Foul spirit! Begone! Back to the Hellmouth that spat you out!" 

...and that's how it had begun and ended that time, and the time before that...

******

...that time again, with rain, always rain, and with him on his knees begging for help...

"Come on, I'm getting a sun-tan here," protested Angelus. "You've helped someone like me before, I was told. There's foul and there's me, and I'm an exceptional exception to the rule. Don't you remember?"

The proprietor shuffled forward, and for the first time, but not the first time in his memory, peered at the vampire and said: "Oh, no. Not you, again. You! You never pay me last time! OH!"

"This is the first time I've been here!" 

...and time again, and again, and again, and again...

*******

...and always, it would rain...

"That's a lie, and you know it," Angel said, and thought that sounded so familiar though he couldn't remember why. What was happening? He flinched as a paper sigil burst into flame and incinerated in seconds, covering him in scorching ash. Bent double, with his head nearly touching the floor, it was as if a giant weight had crushed him from within. So this how it ended? His blood all over the floor? Not even a chance to redeem himself? He could barely speak. "Look, quit with the tourist crap, okay, Pops, this is costing my balls here."

"You have no balls, Angelus. You have only the hope you keep in your heart you be forgiven."

"That counts for something." Angel stared at the pair of feet in Chinese slippers that shifted nearer his nose. A hand touched his back. "And I knew you knew me," he gasped before a wave of relief passed through him. He keeled to the side. 

The old man waved a hand in the air and exclaimed: "Bah!" and then disappeared out of sight behind a stack of boxes near the door. Something in a nearby cage began trilling a song. Angel lay listening to the creature's strange chirrups and exclamations of 'Mogwai', or something like that...

...and that's how it began...

*****

...and that's how it always ended, with the rain falling in torrents outside, and the street empty, and no-one...

The Tibetan prayer bells sang of an arrival. 

Booth shook the rain from his coat, and with the taste of her still in his mouth and on his lips, and the memory of her against him, and under him, he waited.

...and began again...

*****

...and the rain fell in torrents...

"There are many lives!" the proprietor said. He sucked at his pipe sending clouds of smoke to join the smog of incense that hung in the shop. "Many lives. Many lives."

Angel lay on the floor near the door, unable to move. "Yeah, you said that already," he managed to say, "but not for me. I'm a vampire. This is it. This is as good as it gets."

A short, three-legged stool was dragged to within inches of his head. A cloud of tobacco smoke drawn from a reed pipe clouded over him. 

"You think you have no life other than this one," the old proprietor was saying. He sat down, legs splayed indicating arthritic damp had settled into his hips. His little slippers curled slightly at the toes and struck odd angles, as if he had the left shoe on the right foot and right on the left. His pyjama bottoms rode high on his leg revealing white silk socks. "Yet you now vampire," he was saying. "Yet once you were mortal. Now you immortal, and yet not, the sun can kill you. Stake can kill you. So not immortal but different. Mortal with a soul. Mortal with a soul but no heart. Vampire without a soul. Vampire with soul but no heart. Vampire with soul and heart. Many lives. Many lives to come. Many lives now passed. All come together into one place, here, and become one."

Angel stared at the slippers and socks and thought he would drown in tobacco and incense smoke. "Is this a prophecy?" he croaked. "Because, y'know, I hate those things."

"Prophecy? No."

"Thank god."

"Prophecy tell future to come, not past that has been and will be. Prophecy tell only one future. But there are many lives, many futures. So many prophecies. But only one truth."

...and rain, always rain...

******

....a rain that never ended, like an apocalypse, and began when he went looking for the shop...

The Tibetan bells over the door announced his arrival. The shop was always the same, a pocket in time that never changed, never ended nor began, but instead existed and flowed through time like a leaf on a river fed by unceasing rain. 

Booth stood on the entrance mat and shook the rain out of his coat. Left and right of him, sigils on brown paper hung on string. "Okay, look if this is supposed to help me, it's not," he was saying. "I need something more, okay?"

"More? More life? There is only one life. Life, but not life."

The proprietor was sat on his little stool, blowing a cloud of tobacco smoke upwards towards the lanterns cluttering the ceiling. 

"You make no sense. Not life? You mean dead?" enquired Booth. "Because I sorta fit that, the being dead thing, remember?"

"Not you. You alive. Not dead. It, no life. Different. No life. It Yaldaboath."

"Yaldawhat?"

"Yaldaboath. Very bad. Very hard to kill. No life. But you, not no life. You vampire. Vampire different. Still alive. Can be killed. Even dead, still alive."

...trapped in a jar of dust... 

Booth could barely see. On his knees suddenly, he reached out to steady himself, bracing a hand against the floor.

"Vampire," the old proprietor was saying, "need only blood, need take life to live, but die forever. Yalaboath is no life."

"What would Yalda---" Booth had begun to ask, but stopped short as the door at his back burst open. The Tibetan chimes rang out as if calling for help and a violent gust of air cut through the shop sending ceiling lanterns swinging wildly. 

"OH! Bad! Bad breath!" the proprietor was yelling. He had leapt up from his stool and had shut the door in haste. 

Tibetan chimes settled into silence. Incense clouds eddied back into stillness.

"Bad breath. It breathe into the person saying it name," the proprietor said, and as he passed by Booth, gave an almost reassuring tap on the shoulder. "You need help. It everywhere. Very bad. No summon. No speak it name."

"How can I summon something that isn't alive?" asked Booth. "Nor dead for that matter."

"It everywhere," the old man said as he sat down again. He tapped the cage next to him and whatever was inside began trilling a song. "In the beginning, it fell into the gap in between. The no space. The no life. It became underneath and over. Side by side. It took everything away. Love. Hate. Envy. Greed. It named itself Yaldaboath, in spite of itself, and it look into the dark mirror it make for itself out of no-thing and it tell itself it hate itself. It take everything away from itself. It leave nothing. No life."

Booth had sagged against a stack of boxes, soothed by the strange song emanating from the cage nearby. "That doesn't sound that bad," he said.

The old man levelled a look of annoyance. "You speak like lonely fool. Yin and Yang need each other. Not all bad things all bad. Even you. All things have spark of truth, the balance. Mortal. Immortal. Vampire with soul. Vampire exist in dark, bring dark to light, light exist because of dark. There is balance. There is life. Without truth, no life. No life, no balance. Understand?" 

"You forgot the rain," said Booth. He'd never understood that. "Why do you always make it rain?"

"Water good for washing away bad energy. You bring bad energy here."

"I need your help," said Booth, barely able to stay conscious any longer. "Help me, please. Help me stop it."

The old man was saying something. 

"Rain never stop, only change... Become cloud in sky. Then river. Then ocean. Then air. Must change..."

"I meant, her. I meant, help me stop her."

"Her?"

...rain...

******

Booth awoke with a start and to the noise of a car horn blaring. Rain pelted against the windshield. Across the street, a bar he'd left hours earlier had closed. Next to him on the passenger seat, a half finished bottle of whiskey, single malt. 

He rubbed his exhausted eyes, and caught the scent of incense on his palms. Reaching into his coat pocket, he turned out a small phial of white powder wrapped in paper adorned with Chinese lettering. Pouring the remainder of the phial's contents onto his tongue, he washed the bitter powder down with several slugs of whiskey, belched, and waited. The first kick had a hallucinogenic effect, one that was not the slightest bit pleasant - but such was the price to pay for some things, especially if they involved talking to oracles...

Booth stepped out of the car and into the pouring rain. A shop across the street had TVs stacked into the window, and all were showing apocalyptic weather reports.

It always rained.   
Bless the rain.  
Hate the rain.  
Bring it on...


	5. Oracles Don't Give Refunds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nightmare world and reality start to get closer together - and Booth makes an unpleasant discovery.

As hangovers go, it was a killer: a deranged hammer wielding type that just happened to have a metal spike too, a spike it liked to drive straight into the back of the eye socket so it exited at the bridge of the nose. Booth squinted. Yeah, Oracle hangovers were the worst.

He should've known better than to take Oracle powder, the mystic disco snow that invited the hammer wielding spike driver to stay for the night; and then stay over into the next day, and the day after that. The filthy stuff left a nasty taste in the mouth too. Booth tried taking another sip of black coffee and tried not to gag. He was never one for taking precautions, preferring to take the rough with the smooth, but oh, was it rough that morning. Precautions dulled the effects and affected the quality of the Oracle's readings - he'd figured that much out by trial and error over the centuries, but oh, oh for something to take the edge off - like a virgin and he wasn't thinking the Bloody Mary kind either...

But had it been worth it? He couldn't tell. Maybe it was the damn hangover. Maybe in couple of hours he could think more clearly, make sense of the senseless and incomprehensible. More black coffee should do the trick...

He had needed the reading, needed it crystal clear and desperately fast, but boy, he'd never before had a hangover as bad as the one now taking pieces out of the inside of his skull. This was way off crystal, more like mud. He put the awful morning after effects this time round down to his age - age and soft living, yeah that would be it. Too soft! That, and a vegetarian diet, one that involved substitutes rather than fresh, willing virgin. Yeah, it was the pig's blood, and the intervening hundred years or so must have weakened his constitution past the point of tolerance - more black coffee should do the trick... Either way he'd track down the dealer who'd sold him the powder and check the quality and get a refund - fauns, untrustworthy.

Standing in the lift, Booth tried to hold it together in the crowded space and nursed the take-away coffee in his hand. He closed one eye, the left, and pleaded silently with whatever deities he could think of. At one point, he begged for a virgin to fall into his lap accidently so he didn't have to find an excuse not to suck her dry - it could happen! stranger things had happened, whatever they were. Mostly, he wished that the day would pass off so, so, so, so uneventfully it would give him the excuse to hide behind his desk and pretend to catch up on paperwork - and drink coffee, more coffee, lots of coffee...

The lift doors opened. FBI staff piled out. Booth tried to muster the will to live and wished he were dead - really dead. And then he saw the Caroline Julian was waiting for him and the morning took a nose-dive and he wished he hadn't even been born...

"Don't you smile at me, Seeley Booth. You're late!" Caroline snapped. She fell into step beside Booth as he exited the lift.

"What?" Booth had snapped back. He didn't mean to, snap that is. Mornings were not his thing, everyone knew that, but boy this morning he had a good reason. Also, he literally couldn't hear a thing. The hiss in his ears was like never ending rain. His focus was shot to pieces. The world was a wall of noise and between his ears was a void, a post-Oracle bell jar with all the sense sucked out. It was a miracle his body was even responding and putting one foot in front of the other - at least that part of his brain was still connected - but that came with another nasty kick in the balls style side-effect, one that was turned on and would not turn off! He dug his hand in his pocket. Trying to ignore it just made it worse, and opened a door in his head to all manner of intrusive thoughts which resulted in a noticeable hitch to his gait. His left eye blurred again and closed of its own accord...

Everything was so loud: people breathing, the strip-lighting overhead, Caroline's heels clack-clack-clacking against the floor, someone using a super-sized paper stapler over the other side of the office; a phone persistently ringing - "Answer the phone, goddamn it, this is the FBI, that could be the President on the other end of the line!" - the air conditioning unit on the ground floor of the building, the one with a distinct whiney vibration frequency that travelled right up the lift-shaft and onto the fourth floor...

Caroline was still talking as Booth strode somewhat stiffly into his office.

"Seeley Booth, you are in one foul mood this mornin' but I do not recommend you try matching it with mine - Are you listening to a word I'm sayin'?" the Federal Prosecutor demanded. She slapped a file down on the desk.

Booth snatched up his desk phone. "What? Yeah. Sure! Dead people. Cases. I'm on it," he hedged, having no idea what he was replying to or agreeing with, and he didn't care, not that morning. He dialled building maintenance as Caroline launched another volley at him, but he wasn't listening. "HI, maintenance?" he said, "Hello? Hello? Bad line. Look, I wanna make a complaint about the air conditioning unit in the lobby, it is driving me nuts. I think the bearing on the fanhead -- Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? Yeah, the lobby unit, yeah, it is driving me insane in my office - what? I know my extension number is a fourth floor one - YES! I can hear it! - Hello? No, not my phone, I'm not talking about MY phone, I'm talking about the air conditioning unit in the lobby - what? I'm not deaf, I'm not shouting! I don't need to shout, I'm just making a complaint. Can a guy not make a complaint around here? Hello? Hello? - did you hang up - they hung up on me."

Booth slammed the phone down. Curious onlookers had slowed as they passed by the office. Caroline cast an accusatory eye over her favourite agent. "Cher, have you been out all night doin' somethin' you shouldn't na done? Or did you forget to wear your ear-defenders at the practice range this mornin'?"

Booth laughed and wanted to die. "Sure! I'm joking. Safety first, that's me!" he said, too loudly, too quickly. He was already on the move. "I'll get onto that thing you wanted me to take a look at, just leave the file," he said, but he was fleeing and he knew it. He had to get away. The expression on Caroline's face said she knew he was running away too; the FP pursued her quarry to the washroom where she stood outside and shouted her objections through the door. She gave up only after she'd said her piece, loudly, at length, including a few threats that may or may not have been legal and which finished with her sliding a file under the door. She left, eventually.

*****

Late afternoon, the killer with the hammer was still driving a metal spike through Booth's left eye. The agent's prayers seemed to have been answered however, as most of the field staff were out and the department left relatively quiet...

The surface of the desk was surprisingly comfortable. Hard. Unforgiving. Varnished. Cool. Just right for laying one's head down. And the blotting pad absorbed most, if not all, of any drool. Booth drifted in and out of his hangover. Somewhere in between, his unconscious was busy playing with the memory fragments of his previous evening's encounter, but none of it made any sense - yet. Readings never did, at first. Sometimes it took months to figure out what the Oracle had passed on. Sometimes, the message only made sense after events had transpired. Or worse, right in the moment, like a deja-vu which gave only a split second heads-up.

A small part of Booth, a part deep down inside and tucked away safe from anyone, clung to hope: a hope it wouldn't be like the last time, that he wouldn't fail, not this time; that this time, he would be able to figure things out before the parasite struck again...

But that was it. The problem. It was personal. And there was doubt. He hated doubt. Booth's unconcious flipped over and dived back into a sea of thoughts... Could it just be his imagination that made the connections? Was he chasing shadows? Ghosts? Was he unable to accept the truth, that he was a failure? He'd failed, it was true. He'd failed so many times. He'd failed her - forget it, it was never going to be able to be put right - he'd failed that family, failed all of those people on the missing persons lists. Was he just not good enough? Was he just not clever enough to stop that slow moving apocalypse happening right under everyone's nose every day?

Had he failed to kill the parasite at the house? No, he'd checked, he was sure of it, there had been no trace of it when he had returned to check, he was sure. Sure. Absolutely sure. Or had been, until now. He couldn't shake the feeling he'd missed something, something important. He only had his instincts to go on, and they'd been wrong in the past - whoa, so wrong - but there were other factors in play that told him he wasn't wrong, not this time, and it was only a matter of time...

It was only a matter of time before the demon lawyer turned up in his dreams again too. He'd failed him - a demon, he'd failed a demon! Now that really was something - perhaps irony? Booth wasn't sure if it was ironic or not, but he knew someone somewhere was laughing about it, or would be. Too late to correct that mistake now, though. The demon lawyer had become another piece of the jigsaw, perhaps by chance or fate, or bad luck, but it was a piece that fed a gnawing doubt in Booth and drove him on. The way the demon had died told him he was on the right track... but which one?

And would someone please answer the goddamn phone?

..."The phone, ol'chap..."

...if only the jigsaw pieces would make sense...

The phone!

*****

Booth awoke, abruptly, sharply, as if he'd been in stuck in the back with a cattle-prod. Blinking, he sat bolt upright in his chair behind his desk; his brain adjusted to the sudden flood of information and the alertness of his senses: the main office was empty, it was late, really late, everyone had left for the day, only desk lights and few overheads were on, the AC was running cool, and the desk phone next to him was ringing.

The phone!

Booth scrambled for the phone's handset. "Hello, Seeley Booth," he answered - and glanced reflexively at the number dialling: external, local, familiar, recognisable for a moment but he couldn't quite recall whose number it was because as his attention demanded he pay attention to something else - "Hello? Hello?"

A hollow silence emanated through the receiver into his ear; a pause in the world, as if a gap had opened up into it. The receiver almost warmed against Booth's ear, pulling him in as he pressed it close, listening, listening being listened to... His killer hangover began hammering the spike into the back of his eye and suddenly every instinct told him that everything made sense, though he didn't understand how -- "It's you, isn't it," he wanted to say, but it was as if something had reached into his mouth, and filled it up. The silence at the other end of the line replied with more silence to Booth's unspoken question, teasing, moving just out of reach as if it could see how close Booth's lips were to the receiver...

The line went dead before Booth had a chance to say anything else.

The agent dropped the phone's handset back into its cradle. The AC unit in his office clicked off at the same time. He sat behind his desk in the silence that followed with the Oracle hangover with its pointy spike taking tiny chips out of the inside of his skull. He sat like that for what seemed like an age - it could easily have been, this wasn't anything new, he'd been in the same position before, sat alone with only his thoughts; with killers and cases and demons and all manner of things that went bump in the night or wanted to end the world or annihilate existence. Or something like it. In the end, everything came down to one thing: inevitability. Or three things: inevitability, confrontation and the end. Four things actually, if one included take-out...

Booth's stomach rumbled so he grabbed his jacket and left his office thinking of steak - the hitch in his gait would get his attention as soon as he was somewhere private enough, and preferably before, during or after the bloody steak sitting in his refrigerator at home had been devoured.

As for the confrontation, well, that was only a matter of time, he thought. And gave it some more thought as he stood waiting for the lift - and steak, steak first, and a bath, a nice long bath. As for confrontation, he'd be prepared. Or not. That's the way all confrontations went, that's how they always went down. Like lifts. He'd face it, when the time came. When the doors opened, regardless of what happened to be there, he'd walk right in. Until then, he'd wait for the lift and think - not about that, not yet, home first, steak first, then a bath...

Booth pressed a thumb to the bridge of his nose and tried to focus. In some ways it was comforting to know he had been right about the parasite. He could feel that rightness inside him, warm and almost comforting - like steak - and to finally know it wasn't his imagination playing tricks on him was reassuring; to know the parasite was still out there only made things easier, in a way. It gave him the purpose he'd lacked for such a long time - was that what he had forgotten? Was that it, had it been that, had that been the problem all along?

The lift doors opened. Booth stepped in, pressed the lobby button and dug a hand deep into his pocket and tried to only think about steak. And about when the end would come, about him, and Yaldabaoth, and how he would face off with something no-one else had ever been able to kill. And the apocalypse would be averted...

...that would be it...

As the lift doors closed, realisation struck Booth like a sharp spike hammered through the back of his skull and driven out of his left eye: the number which had dialled his office had been his own home number.


	6. Once Upon A... Part 1 and 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The distant past has consequences that are far reaching - and haunt the present.

Part 1 : Once upon a then...

Then? Then the years were young and nothing mattered. 1786. People prayed. People were prey. Across rural France a trail of fear and horror: the angel of death, Angelus, the nightmare borne of superstition that spread from mouth to mouth as death spread from village to village: the devil's children had come, Hell had come with a smile and an entourage...

"A candle to light the night," the priests incanted - one in particular said these exact words before he was decapitated by a sword. "There will always be light against the darkness, light to rememb--" 

Priests. Tiresome. 

His head bounced across the grass; as it came to rest, his eyes blinked once in astonishment at a night sky turned crimson and black upon black with soot. Glassy and dead, they then reflected the sword that was driven into the soft loam nearby. The devil's child, bedecked in the latest fashions from Paris, wandered off, laughing, and in search of something else to entertain itself with.

And thus began the nightmare for the deVeer family at least, a nightmare become reality, one that came knocking as the sun set; one the servants invited into the family home - a modest 'palace' by French aristocracy standards, with its porticos, sun terrace, pale blue silks and servants quarters, held a stable block of thoroughbreds and enough land to serve a modest income. The family even had its own chapel and serving priest... 

Hours later, with her priest's decapitated head in her lap - it was a gift from the angel - the Marquise sat in the grounds of her home, crumpled upon the grass in her silks like a discarded table napkin, used and bruised. She stared at the other gift she'd received that evening, the inferno that was once her home. Her eyes were as glazed and unblinking as her priest's despite the fact she still breathed. Horses in the sable block screamed as flames chased smoked into the air. 

The air that night had a spot of drizzle in it - it was October after all, with its autumnal chill and damp settling into the grass - though it was doubtful if the young Marquise had noticed the wet settling on her bare shoulders, or saturating her hair. Pretty little thing, she lived up to every expectation: tiny, delicate, fine boned as only the French and their porcelain ideas of aesthetic refinement could achieve, and as doe eyed as the day she lost her virginity to her husband twenty years her senior -- Priests... you had to give it to them, they knew how to cultivate that sheepish ignorance in their flock and maintain it long after it had been compromised. 

So there she sat, the little sheepess, with her beloved priest's head leaking between her legs and the ground leeching the heat from her body as her home belted wave after wave of heat against her face. And like a sheep, she shivered constantly, but whether from horror, or cold, or a combination of both, who knows - who cares? - but she was, as the saying goes, quiet unto herself, her little mind elsewhere, recalling that at that time of year, as the nights drew in earlier and earlier, she would have to light candles in the drawing room to ward off the dark; and then play peek-a-boo with her young children who would run and hide at the far end of the dinning table, and then jump out. It was a ritual, you see, one of those quintessentially indulgent pursuits that sheep play. She would ensure to pretend she couldn't see them or hear them, and pretend she was frightened by their sudden appearance from under the linen tablecloth, or from behind the carved oak chairs, but never the drapes. Instead, she would turn her back, and would hold the candelabra aloft so that the candlelight would dance off the walls, blinding her...

....like her house..! 

The angel's laughter caused the Marquise to shiver, to recall, then, that it was one such candle that had started the blaze, its yellow wax poured deliberately across the highly polished floor, the chair her dowry had purchased, the table she inherited, and then over her tongue and down her throat. Sheep that she was, she had struggled and had been restrained. She remembered the light dancing, and the priest chanting, calling out, defending her with words. But God had not answered. Instead, the Marquise remembered hearing her children screaming - the angel, that face, his face, his beautiful face and smile and his laughing entourage. What he had said to her? Run. Hide. Hide and seek and save your child.

A wave of heat touched the Marquise's face as the night air stirred and brought her back from her reverie to the screams from inside the burning palace - servants, fleeing for their lives or cornered in some antechamber having been rooted out from their hiding places - or was it the house itself that was screaming? It reminded the young Marquise of the time her father had taken her to the city; the time the horses at the abattoir had screamed as she waited for her father's return. 

The horses...

Another wave of heat, and timbers wrenched and snapped, a sound that, to the Marquise's ears, marked some irrevocable loss. Through fresh tears, the world blurred to become orange and black. A scream punched a hole into the night and the sound of the angel's laughter and his approaching footsteps sent the Marquise scrambling across the grass on her hands and knees. The priest's head rolled and bounced down the lawn to disappear into the foot of a hedge. 

Along the topiaried hedges that stepped down the garden terraces, sweet honey blossoms trembled and crisped in the heated breeze. Nearby, a terracotta pot lay shattered, its thick loam and ornamental lime tree sprayed across the gravel. Behind it, the fountain that was both the centre piece and focal point of the perfect geometric symmetry had acquired two new additions; they floated face down amongst the flat lilies: The Marquis and his young son. Cherubs on the fountain pissed bloody water arcs over both. 

Silhouetted against the raging inferno at the top of the terraces, the angel and his entourage stood laughing.

And then it came, a sickly sweet smell that crawled into the Marquise's throat as she herself crawled upon her hands and knees. It caused her to stop. It caused astonishment to descend upon her as her gaze crossed the tiny pair of dirty bare feet upon the grass ahead of her, and up, to the dirty linen nightgown and up still, into the soot and blood smeared face of her daughter. Her astonishment was complete as she stared into the black pits of her daughter's eyes where once there had been hazel brown and happiness. And when she heard her daughter speak, the thick sickly scent reached out and wrapped around her throat - "Yaldabaoth."

********

Part 2 : Once upon a now.....

Now? Now, hadn't really mattered for over a hundred years - not that it ever had, or would.

"A candle to light the night by," Booth murmured, and lit a candle and placed it amongst other on the church altar. "There will always be light against the darkness, light to remember." 

Priests; still tiresome salesmen, thought Booth, and bowed his head and hoped whoever he could hear slowly approaching would go and find something, or someone else, to bother - perhaps even God. 

"You come every day," a voice said. 

Guess that'll be a no on the finding something else to bother, thought Booth. The vampire remained on his knees, head slightly bowed. Heat from the altar candles touched his face as footsteps behind him shifted across the church's marble floor.

"My son, forgive me, I do not wish to intrude upon your time, but I have noticed you light at least one every day." Perhaps the stirring of air which set the candles dancing had been an outstretched hand that stopped short of touching Booth. "God compels me to ask, would you like me hear your confession, to lift this great burden you carry?"

"No," said Booth, "it's mine to carry," and immediately bit the inside of his cheek - why did he even reply, that was stupid. Annoyed with himself, as much for being snappy - was he? - as for being disturbed, he silently asked for forgiveness. As the candles danced in front of him, he braced himself for inevitable.

"God can help you, my son, if you ask Him to."

"No, He--" Booth replied, again a little too quickly. "I'm happy to carry the burden," he said. "I deserve it. I made it, it's mine. I'm strong enough, I'll be fine."

Thank you had always been hard to say and this time was no different, so it remained unsaid. Booth bit the inside of his cheek again. Candles on the altar danced again as the air stirred - please don't be giving me a benediction, thought Booth as he imagined a hand moving behind him. 

"Bless you, my son, in the name of..."

Booth bowed his head and crossed himself in acceptance at the prayer and tried not to bite his cheek; and then waited, praying to be left alone. 

"Do you remember their names?" 

The inquiry caught Booth off guard. For the first time he looked up, and into the blaze of candlelight on the altar in front of him. "No," he replied after a time. He had to think, just for a moment, just to be sure. "No. Actually, some. A few. But I can remember their faces, every single one of them." 

The sense of another's presence behind him melted away and the candles on the altar settled. After a time, Booth took another and lit its taper. "Giselle deVeer," he whispered as he set the newly lit candle amongst others in front of him. "And her two children. And her husband. And her father," he intoned. "And her mother. And sister. And her sister's children. And her brother and his wife and her three children. And--"

Booth broke off and looked sharply aside. Candles stirred as a familiar sickly sweet scent drifted past and caught in his nose. On guard suddenly, he turned quickly. In his field of view, the church was silent, pews sat empty, row upon row of vacant polished rosewood with the exception of but a few singular pennants near the main altar. Booth caught the scent again, that familiar scent which had dogged him for months now. It teased him. He had almost managed to convince himself it had been his imagination; that even the Oracle had been wrong and all his efforts to track the Parasite had been the result of his own growing delusion. You're going mad, he had told himself, mad in your old age. Guess not...

...or maybe...

Disturbed by the event, and a lingering presence he could neither place nor put his finger on, Booth rose uncomfortably and tried to shrug the moment off. But the sense he had not been alone, even in the sanctity of the church, pervaded, clinging to him; and he was again reminded of it as he left the relatively warm confines of the church. Stepping out into the biting cold of the night, Booth turned the collar of his coat up against the wind. The church door shut resolutely behind him; a solid comforting weight and echo but one that said to him he was alone, shut out, outside of God's protection. Suddenly the predator had become prey. It was a feeling Booth had forgotten. It was a feeling he did not like. And for some reason he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, but he felt that he was ultimately responsible for it. 

He set off in the direction of home unaware of being watched.


	7. A Ghostly Reminder for Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booth pays a visit to an old acquaintance - in London, England.

The ghost settled into a chair, a shadow within shadows, a form barely present except for its own awareness keeping it alive - yes, ghosts were alive, technically, if you could call it that. 

Not everyone became a ghost. It was one of those strange things even they didn't understand. Call it a quirk, a little bit like old age, it sorta just happened. There were different types of ghost, from your friendly manifestations to your mean guys, and then there were the ones that got twisted around inside themselves and went mad and started hurting the living. Eventually, though, they all faded away, all except the exceptions to rules and even they weren't sure if they had ever been part of the living. The exceptions had been around a long, long time. 

The ghost currently sat neatly in the wingback chair near the fireside was one such exception. It had been around a long time, since time immemorial in fact, and that meant it was one of the first of its kind. It had been documented all over the world and throughout history, appearing in places as far flung as Kathmandu or remote Inca temples in Peru. Every culture in the world seemed to have a ghost like it, though how and why was always a mystery. It stared at everything with a gaze that looked right through the lies and the deceit, right down to the bone of whatever truth may lay hidden underneath a person or a thing. If you met it at a crossroads, it was said if you asked, it would tell you where and how you would die. It rarely spoke otherwise, but when it did, what it said was usually invaluable. Booth hoped that he wasn't disturbing it by coming in its present abode, a derelict house in north London. 

"Angelus," the ghost said, as if it were happy to see the vampire and it was as if the room breathed at the same time. Dust stirred across the floor. "It's been some time since last we met, a year?"

Booth settled himself in a chair opposite the ghost, careful not to disturb the candles on the floor he had set for the summoning. "Quite a few years, actually," he replied, "and its Booth now, I go by the name of Booth. I got myself a job, better than the other ones I've had, still a little bit like the other ones I've had but - I need your help."

The ghost appeared to consider the new information before it spoke again. "You need something?" it said almost as if it had forgotten it had company.

Booth wondered if the ghost ever considered a summons rude. "I didn't know who else to ask."

The ghost moved a little in the chair, the approximation of its head nodding in agreement. The space around it shifted as if falling into another time only to return to its rightful place in the present a moment later. Then, the ghostly form appeared to garner solidity: long thin arms and legs, clothing too though non-descript as if someone had thought of what it should wear rather than the clothes themselves belonging to it, or to a specific time or place. "Is it the young girl again?" the ghost enquired after a time. The manner in which its spectral fingers threaded themselves hinted at some wistful emotion that did not quiet convey itself otherwise. "She was beautiful. Her voice reminded me of a bee upon a flower."

"Buffy. Her name was Buffy. And no," Booth replied. "She--" The vampire became suddenly preoccupied with staring at own his hands as they came together. Unexpected memories and emotional conflicts he thought long since put to rest rose up inside him. Had this been the problem all along, he thought, a focus issue? He shook his head, trying to shake away a fog that seemed to hover over him ever since he'd been to see the Oracle. Then, he began to talk, to tell the ghost about everything that had happened since the last time he had visited: about Buffy, about Angel Investigations and about London and LA, about how despite everything he tried to do, people just drifted away and moved on, and how that had left him right back where he started again, alone, purposeless... and then drifting around the world until some crazy stupid incident where he - he must have been crazy, out his mind to adopt the alias of a dead guy he'd found out on a battlefield in Afganistan, right? Long story! :

"I mean, this guy, you should'a seen him - I've never seen anything like it - he looked just like me - okay he was a mess, y'know, havin' been, y'know, killed - mean, I looked just like him and he looked just like me, it was unreal, and I thought, y'know I could---"

\---take a dead guy's name, pretend to be him, go back to the States and start living like a mortal walking around with factor 500 plastered everywhere and hiding the truth from even his own family... he had a son for Christ's sake, how could someone tell a kid his dad's been blown up---

And there it was. 

Booth stared down the barrel of the lie he had been living for the past decade---and thought of Sweets, and how easy it was talking to the ghost, and how much he missed the psychologist. 

The space around the chair opposite Booth shifted slightly as the ghost crossed a non-corporeal leg and wound a foot in a reflexive manner that suggested it was stretching a tendon. Booth took that as a sign it was alright to continue. 

Another hour, or maybe two, and the vampire had confessed nearly every minor mister meaner or moral transgression he could think of. The ghost merely sat, listening (he hoped) because who knew if ghosts really had ears...

"Bones?" the ghost enquired at one point.

"Yeah, she's called Bones. She's nice, weird, nice, y'know. You'd like her - nice. I'm not sure if she'd believe in you, but I haven't told her about you, yet, or about all the stuff, me stuff. She doesn't know." 

"Stuff? Is this about the socks?"

"No, not the socks - she knows about the socks, she's fine with that - no, the other stuff, the stuff I'm here to ask you about--"

"Not the socks?"

"No. The parasite. And the demon that got incinerated and keeps haunting my dreams and the family that got killed and the Oracle - you remember I went to the Oracle about this paraside but that's the last time I take Oracle powder because I dunno, I've not felt right since then---"

The ghost was nodding, the shadows around it moving. 

"---right, which is why I came to you, why I'm here, because I've tried everything else." Booth finally took a much needed breath. "I need to know what you know about it, the parasite, how to kill it, because I'm sure its coming for me, in fact, I know it is, I can feel it."

The ghost appeared fixed in time for a moment. "And you like your socks. You'd like to continue wearing your socks and being 'mortal'. And Bones." 

"This isn't just about Bones - in fact, she and I aren't even - my soul is still intact and it's not going anywhere - can we concentrate on the parasite, please?"

"Yaldabaoth." The manner in which the ghost stated the parasite's name sounded final to Booth's ears. "That which should not exist, exists - I met a man, once, upon a path near the sea..."

Booth sat quietly as the ghost began to tell of its encounter with a man upon a path near the sea. It had been around the time the skies over the land had been thick with black soot and the sun had disappeared for nearly a year, it said, something about a volcano smothering the light, but the ghost did not seem to be able to be precise. It said only that at that time, it had observed many strange things, had spoken to many people, and that the day he had encountered the man, or rather the other way around, the man had been running, running from a horror that had pursued him night and day for nearly over a week and which he said, filled his mind with the most terrifying thoughts and images that he dare not sleep, not even for a moment... "For it will find me when I sleep, he said, and so I cannot, and now you come for me too," the ghost said. "I felt pity then for the poor creature, for he was terrified beyond all reason. I should not have interfered."

The ghost then went on to describe how he had assured the man he was going to guard him as he slept, and had led him down to the beach and to a seaman's hut to shelter from the wind and which looked out towards the rocks. And the man lay down amongst the discarded tackle and netting, and exhausted and cold, quickly fell into a sleep. It was then that the parasite came, and entered the man through his dreams, through the realms that exist between the spirit and the mortal soul, the ghost said, a place of half lives and half light. "A place I go," said the ghost, "for I am a dream within a dream made real by dreaming of dreams. Your Oracle exists in such a place." 

Booth sat back in his chair. The ghost continued, concluding his tale about the man on the sea path. The poor creature, it said, had slept, overwhelmed by sheer exhaustion it could not fight back and wake one final time, and so had died there, in sleep, overcome by the parasite as it infested him. 

"He was already infected by it, of course," the ghost said finally. "I went to the village he had resided in all his life. They were all consumed. Their eyes black as pitch, their mouths gaping and hollow like a crow. They were gathered on the beach when I arrived, their skin cold, and they stared out to the sea that had been their livelihood, and then one by one they entered the sea, to a man, even the children, all of them, all except one. There was one among them, a child, and it was she that turned and looked upon me and said: 'I shall have you too'." 

The ghost paused as if contemplating something. Booth glanced at the flickering candles on the floor between them he had used for the summoning. 

"She tried to kill me," the ghost announced. Its manner alluded to its surprise, perhaps even shock at the idea it could be killed. "Nothing is beyond her reach. I barely got away. If you seek to destroy her, I wish you the very best of luck, vampire, for you will succeed where no-one has before. She is a demi-god. Yaldabaoth. Made of herself by herself, made manifest by her corrupted will alone. Only she can destroy herself. She is... abomination. She exists and feeds upon the base qualities that mirror her own, that reside in all of us."

As the candles finally went out Booth stared at the empty chair that remained opposite him: the ghost, if it had even been there at all, had gone, leaving the vampire alone, yet again. 

Booth said a prayer for ghost and then left the derelict house just as dawn broke over London on Christmas Day. His breath ghosted in the damp air as he murmured: "Merry Christmas," and with a final, silent goodbye to the ghost, the vampire turned up his collar and set off down a path that would lead him to the city, and then on, eventually, to what he hoped would be solutions to his problems.


End file.
